


The Ding

by naturegirlrocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock knows nothing about sport, Slice of Life, This is why I don't write porn, plot gets in the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturegirlrocks/pseuds/naturegirlrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been back for three months, but there is something distracting him. John worries while he slowly accepts his attraction to the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ding

**Author's Note:**

> Written on my phone, without a beta, all mistakes are mine.

John stood still in the doorway. He was watching Sherlock who was wearing a blue striped pyjamas and standing by the window. 

It was three months since the detective had returned. Three months since John's heart had begun the long crooked journey back from being broken. It would had be easier to heal if Sherlock fully had returned, and not having left a part of himself back there, wherever he had been.

The detective was leaning against the window frame, the orange curtain was draped over his right shoulder giving him a good view of the night street below. He looked like a strange parody of a superhero watching over his sleeping city.

He probably wasn't watching the street at all, but some higher etheric level of existence visible only to him.

The yellow-tinted lights from outside made the dusky room look gloom. It made Sherlock look more troubled and alone than John had ever thought possible. 

John was sure it wasn't just the light. He placed his restocked medical bag on the table next to the door. He was tired after his eight hour shift at the A&E, but not tired enough to go to bed just yet. 

"New case?" he asked. 

"Perhaps," Sherlock didn't turn around, but continued his long stare out the window.

"'Perhaps'?" John sat down in his comfortable chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, and wiggling his toes in his socks. "You don't know?" 

Sherlock turned, his face half in shadow, half in light. His deducing grey eyes roamed over John. The intense scrutiny was not unusual. Since Sherlock had returned there had been plenty of these observations, not as many explanations though.

John had done plenty of his own observing. Especially in the first month as they had reestablished a daily routine, mostly to confirm that Sherlock actually was back, and not just a figment of his imagination. 

Their fight a few days after the return, when John's pent up emotions finally snapped, had swept away most of his existential doubts. He was even more convinced this new reality as he had needed to patch Sherlock up afterwards. 

John's own observing was now more of a getting-to-know-you-again type. Spending over twenty months away chasing dangerous criminals around the world had done nothing to make Sherlock's personality any more understandable than before. The missing part of him was even less than so.

"Can I help?" asked John, a sentence he had repeated to infinity by now. 

"I need to speak to Mycroft!" 

Sherlock jerked away from the window, the curtain slid down from his shoulder as he moved. He grabbed his long coat from the hanger by the door, and continued passed John out the door and down the stairs.

"Sherlock!" called John. "You are in your pyjama and slippers! Sherlock?! It's over ten o'clock! It's February!"

The front door slammed. John got up and walked over to the window. He could see the contours of Sherlock, and the coat, hurrying away down the street. Every time Sherlock left 221b there was a fear in John's, not quite yet healed, heart of never seeing him again.

John frowned. He took up his mobile as he walked to the kitchen. The table was as full of ongoing experiments and chemical equipment as if Sherlock never had been away. There was even a human eye floating around in a jelly-like pink liquid in the middle of everything. 

_He's coming to you, JW_

John sent the message to Mycroft. The man probably already knew that his brother was on the way, but a friendly heads up was never wrong. Mycroft had received a lot of the blame while Sherlock was presumed dead, only half of it had been deserved. 

Since there was nothing else to do, John decided to go to bed. He lay awake for three hours before he heard Sherlock return, and was able to relax. 

It wasn't until the next morning he read the answering message from Mycroft that Sherlock had never arrived.

\------

"John," said Sherlock. "Can you advice me on this?"

John was in the kitchen eating breakfast. Sherlock was in the living room, ignoring breakfast. A plate with two cold prices of toast with fried eggs and baked beans stood forlorn on the table. 

"What?" John swallowed the last piece of his own breakfast. "You want my advice?"

This is a rare occurrence, thought John as he took two cups of tea to the living room. Sherlock was by the sofa, looking down on it with serous thought. John stopped by his side, and looked as well. 

"Any particular reason why you draped our sofa with underpants?" He asked and gave Sherlock one of the cups. 

"They are my underpants," said Sherlock and tasted the tea without the usual vince. 

"Ah," nodded John, still not understanding. "Obviously. I would have been worried if they were mine."

"Why?" Sherlock immediately turned to him. "Why would you worry if so?"

"Well... _that_ would have been just... weird."

They looked at the pants for a moment. There were about fifteen pairs, most of them black, but there was also a few blue, and some white. A few briefs, a few boxers. 

John sipped some tea as he scanned the exhibition, and came to the conclusion that Sherlock was actually quite unexciting when it came to underwear. There were no bright colours or patterns. Still he felt a bit uneasy, and perhaps a bit excited, watching something that was worn by Sherlock so intimately. 

"If you were going on a date," said Sherlock, putting a bent forefinger under his bottom lip, and his thumb under his chin, pinching it. "Which pair should you choose?"

"You have a date?" John blinked in surprise. "Do we have a case? Why haven't you told me?"

"No case. It's simply an experiment."

"You are experimenting with dates?" 

John shifted nervously, Sherlock wasn't going to ask him out, was he? That would be... John frowned and took a drink from his cup to distract himself from the thought. 

Not that he would mind a date with Sherlock. It didn't _have_ to be romantic, since John wasn't gay, no. Though a date with Sherlock...

"The pants, John. Which pants?"

"Um..." John frowned again. "I guess... those?"

He pointed to a black pair of briefs that had a grey print of some fancy designer's name and logo over the waistband. They looked almost new, and quite comfortable. 

"Really?" Sherlock sounded bit surprised. "Interesting."

"Did I get it wrong?" John couldn't help but to feel that he had been put through a test of some kind. 

"Thank you for your help," said Sherlock, took the chosen pants, and then moved towards his bedroom. 

"You are cleaning the rest of these away, aren't you?" John called after him.

\-----

The display of pants were still on the sofa when John got back from work five hours later. Sherlock and the black designer pants were not at home, though. John sighed and started to gather together the scattered clothing. 

He blushed a little thinking that these were clothes of very personal character. They were not exactly fine lace knickers and bras, but for a man like Sherlock they might as well be. 

John cleared his throat, and headed for Sherlock's room. He had first planned to dump everything in a pile on the bed, but that was quite a juvenile thought. 

The top drawer of the bureau was for the sock index, John knew that much from his raids for cigarettes, and from when he had put all of Sherlock's things in storage after....

He pulled out the second drawer, and was going to dispose of the pants there, when what he saw made him pause. A tube of lubricant and a large pack of condoms, both opened. John blinked. 

It was not the lube or the condoms by themselves that were shocking. Almost every healthy adult male would own something like it, and a underwear drawer was a common place to keep it in. What _was_ shocking was that it was Sherlock's underwear drawer.

John had on occasion even wondered if Sherlock even had a penis. Though being a doctor John was aware of the anatomical necessity. He had seen Sherlock go to the bathroom, several times, even stood beside him on a couple occasions when in a public bathrooms. 

The thought that his flatmate had a penis, and that it actually was used in other ways than peeing, was a bit chocking. Though the thought was not as unpleasant as he would have imagined. 

Then he remembered that he had found nothing like this when he cleared out Sherlock's room for storage. There hadn't even been a single one of those sample condoms that was given out free at clinics. Again John felt conflicted by his feelings.

What had happened while Sherlock was away? And why did it affect John?

John quickly stuffed the pants haphazardly in the drawer, and closed it. He left Sherlock's room quickly, not wanting to think of it anymore. 

\-----

Sherlock was getting texts. There was no sexy moan accompanying them this time, it was a distinctive _ding_ , but it was a different ding than the usual ding. The look on Sherlock's face was the same as when Irene had texted him: irritated and mildly intrigued.

John hated that ding. Sherlock said it was a friend. Since when did Sherlock get more friends? Him, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and occasionally Mycroft. If Sherlock got any more friends his brain would surely explode. 

Neither of them had a special ding, not even John, who really should have deserved his own ding by now. He should defiantly get his own ding. John immediately stopped that strange train of thought, because that way madness lay.

Was it someone Sherlock had met on his year and a half travelling as a dead man? Sherlock didn't like to talk about those missing months. Except from saying that they all were over now. John accepted that, mostly. Though he would very much want to know what had changed during that time, and what had been left behind. 

Sherlock couldn't... He couldn't possibly be in a relationship with somebody, could he?

There had been a irritating ding interrupting John's Friday night favourite telly show about three hours ago. Sherlock had put on his coat, and left, leaving John who was actually missing the snarky commentary, that he had apparently gotten used to all over again. It was like watching a American sit-com without the boxed laughter. 

After the show ended John worked on his blog, answered a few mails, wrote to his sister, and then read some other people's blogs. 

He was reading an American soccer-mom's description of her day, and making scary associations to his own life with Sherlock, when he heard the front door slam downstairs. 

Nothing happened for another two minutes, then there was a painful groan from the stairs. John was immediately on his feet. 

"Sherlock?" 

Sherlock was halfway up the stairs, resting on the rail. His dark hair was wet from sweat, and his posture was slumped. There seemed to be a considerable amount of pain in every move he made. 

"Fuck," John hurried to help him. "Who'd you piss off this time?" 

There was no cuts or bruising on Sherlock's face, which was odd because there was usually the place you wanted to hit him first. John placed a hand on Sherlock's back, the detective winced badly. 

"Was it in the kidneys?" John asked, while assisting the man up these stairs and into the flat. "How does your ribs feel? Can you breathe all right?"

"Why do you assume..." Sherlock took a breath, and feebly tried to stand up straight, "...that someone has beaten me up?"

He pushed away from John. A look of pure determination settled in his brows. Gingerly, and slightly limping, Sherlock tried out three different ways to get down on the sofa, before deciding for a forth: just fall, face first, on to the pillows. 

John hesitated for a moment, but then helped Sherlock by removing the coat. He carefully rolled the man on to the side, facing outwards. Sherlock groaned again, he was obviously in pain.

"Won't you tell me what happened then?" John kneeled down on the floor. "I can see you're hurt, and you have the beginnings of a fever. Don't lie to me."

"Experiment..." came the murmuring answer, followed by a small smile.

"Sherlock, you haven't taken any drugs, have you?" John tried to look at his eyes.

"I'm clean," said Sherlock in a harsh voice. "I just need to rest a little. Everything's fine."

"You still going to have a fever," John got to his feet. "I'll get you something for that."

John walked to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. He frowned as he looked through the various chemicals that had no place there in the first place. 

The back pains, the stiff movements, the flushed cheeks. If he didn't had a long run and fallen badly on his arse, Sherlock just had sex. Though judging by the fever, the sweats, and the denial, very badly prepared and rough sex, but still sex. 

And it had, almost surely, been with a man. The thought was disturbing in levels that John didn't even know he had. Was that actual jealousy he felt?

Suddenly he wished he was wrong. He wished that Sherlock really had taken a bad beating from some idiotic thugs, but he knew that wasn't the case.

He wondered if Sherlock had worn the pants, the ones that _John_ had chosen. He wondered if it had been consensual...

"Sherlock...?" 

John really didn't want to ask, but as a friend, and as a doctor, he didn't want Sherlock to get hurt. If he were to believe, not only Mycroft, but also his own eyes, then Sherlock had very little experience in sex. 

"Hm?" 

Sherlock was still on his side, but his eyes were closed. The pain was still visible on his face, but the flush on his cheeks had gone down a little. 

"You..." John hesitated, but then pulled himself mildly together. "You are being careful? I mean... You are using protection, and good preparation...? And, err... Keeping clean? And so on."

He placed a cool wet towel on the detective's forehead. John couldn't believe he was talking about such things with a grown man well into his thirties. Sherlock opened a eye. 

"And if I'm not?"

John felt his stomach turn into several knots. Was Sherlock asking as in _just asking_ , or had it already happened? Sherlock could never, never be this ignorant, even about sex. Or could he?

"You can get an infection," John tried to look serious through the worry. "Or... or a disease."

"I'm fine," Sherlock closed the eye.

"G- good," John rubbed his face, feeling his patience running low. "Take these," he said, and held out two pills and a glass to Sherlock. "Water." 

"It does hurt..." murmured Sherlock as he swallowed down his medication. "I will take your advise under consideration."

John just sighed, looked at his friend for a few moments, and then he went to bed. There was nothing more he could do anyway.

It took him over an hour to fall asleep. Should he have offered to look for damage or tarring? He might be a doctor but asking to check his flat mate's arse out before bed was perhaps pushing it. 

He ignored the prickling sensation in his own arse as he thought about it.

\----

When he got down the next morning Sherlock was still on the sofa. It wasn't clear if the man had slept or not. Either way, he looked a little bit better.

John was about to start breakfast when he was interrupted by Greg Lestrade suddenly coming out from the bathroom. 

"Sherlock!" said the D.I. "I said we were in a hurry. Oh, good morning, John."

"Morning," nodded John.

He noticed the impatience in Greg's posture, and guessed that there was a case. Not wanting to be left behind John immediately walked over to the washing hamper to pull out yesterday's trousers to wear. 

"It can't be that urgent if you have time to take a bathroom break," murmured Sherlock.

"I was hoping you were ready to leave by the time I finished."

"So you peed for my benefit? How kind of you."

John pulled on a grey knitted junper, also from the hamper, over his sleep crumpled t-shirt. 

"He had a bad fever last night," he said to Greg. "As his doctor I recommend he rests..."

"I don't need to... Ah!" Sherlock made a clenched face as he got up from the sofa. "I'm perfectly fine!"

He wobbled a little where he stood. Both John and Greg took a step forward as if Sherlock was going to fall, but then he gained control of his balance. There was only a slightly noticeable limp as he began to move. 

"Robbery in a jewellery store gone wrong," said Greg, watching Sherlock's stiff movements with a frown. "The store clerk was shot dead."

"I'm not going in a police car," said Sherlock, gingerly pulling on his coat. 

"I'll let you sit in the front seat," said Greg.

Sherlock gave him a thoughtful glare.

"Fine," he gave a nonchalant shrug, and limped out of the door.

Greg exchanged a smirk with John. 

"What's with the limp?" asked Greg as they followed Sherlock downstairs and out if the door. "If I didn't know better I'd think..."

"He got in a fight," said John resolutely.

"Right," hummed the D.I. as he seated himself in the backseat of the police car next to John.

John looked at Sherlock's black set of curls through the steel netting that separated the back from the front seats. 

The uniformed driver started the car and edged it in to traffic. As they reached the end of Baker Street, were it connected to a more busy road, he turned on the sirens. 

Under cover of the wailing sound John leaned closer to Greg.

"Actually," he said in a low voice. "I'm a bit worried that he's up to something dangerous." 

"Do I want to hear this?" Greg looked a bit queasy. 

"I don't think it's illegal," John shook his head. "But I think he is in risk of getting hurt."

"Why don't we talk about it tonight?" said Greg.

The police car pulled up in front of a jewellery store with a smashed window. Two other police cars, and Sergeant Donovan, were already there. The sirens were turned off. 

"What are you two canoodling about?" Sherlock turned, giving John and Greg a suspicious look.

"I was asking John to have a pint with me tonight," said Greg. "Do you want to join? The pub has the Arsenal versus Man-U game on a big screen telly."

"I don't like cricket," said Sherlock, and moved out if the car. 

A very shocked police driver let John and Greg out of the backseat.

:::::

Sherlock had managed to find the shop clerk's killer within two hours. The suspect had been hiding out in a public bathroom stall at Paddington station, trying desperately to flush a gun down a toilet... 

The consulting detective collapsed not far after the suspect had been taken away by sergeant Donovan. Sherlock's fever was by then through the roof. John berated himself not for noticing earlier. 

"What's wrong with him?" asked Greg as he helped John carry Sherlock to a waiting police car that was taking them back to Baker Street.

"Let's get him home first," said John.

"I'm fine," murmured Sherlock against his shoulder. 

Neither of his two friends believed him though, mainly because he didn't argue about riding in the back of the police car.

"Just need to go to the bathroom," murmured Sherlock as they arrived home.

John and Greg tried not to listen to the painful grunting sounds emerging from the other side if the door. It was quite hard.

After putting Sherlock to bed, John took out a six pack of beers from the fridge. There wasn't going to be any pub visits this evening. 

Greg had frowned when John told him that Sherlock probably had got himself a violent lover, most likely a man.

After collecting himself from the shock that Sherlock actually was capable of having a lover, Greg became thoughtful. 

"Then you need to take him back," he said, taking a swig from his bottle. "You can't stand by watching your man get hurt."

"He is not my _man_ ," John huffed.

Greg just giggled in his beer, but then he put on a more stern face. 

"Seriously, though. If someone is hurting Sherlock, we have to do something before his brother finds out."

"Mycroft would sink them to the bottom of the Themes with cemented shoes," nodded John bitterly. "But then he had to get in line after me. I'm not letting Sherlock get lost again. I just got him back, from the dead I might add."

"I hear you," Greg clinked his bottle to John's.

"Do you think he could have meet someone while away?" John bit his lower lip. "He hasn't really been acting like himself. He has been absent, I mean even more than before."

"Not impossible," Greg tapped the bottle opening thoughtfully to his chin. 

They talked a bit more as they worked through the beers. They turned on the telly to watch the football game. John checked in on Sherlock regularly, but the man seemed to sleep soundly. The match ended at a draw with two goals for each of the teams. Greg called for a cab. 

"Take care of him," he had said as a farewell.

\------

John was standing in the doorway to Sherlock's room, looking down at the heap of gangly man spread out on the bed, face down. They had managed to get him out of his shoes, socks, coat and jacket, but had left the shirt and trousers on.

He stepped forward and poked Sherlock's thigh with a forefinger. There was a pathetic moan in response. John sighed. 

"Sherlock..." 

"Did you have fun at your hockey game?" Sherlock's eyes were still glossy. 

"Your fever is worse."

"I'm fine." 

"No, you are not!" John sat down on the edge of the bed so that he would be more level with Sherlock. 

"Are you worried?" came a question from the pillows.

"Of course I am, Sherlock! Bloody hell! Look at you. This bloke of yours is either completely incompetent, a sadist, or both!"

John took a few calming breaths, the alcohol in his system wasn't helping. 

"He's actually not that bad," Sherlock rubbed his forehead against sheets. "And he's getting better..."

"Sherlock! I don't who this man is, but I won't let you see him again! I forbid it!"

"You what?" Sherlock tried to turn in a sudden way, but winced in pain.

"Wait here," John got up, walked out to the other room to retrieve his medical bag.

There was a moment of silence when he came back to Sherlock's side. He took out a pair of latex gloves and a tube if anti-septic cream from the bag. He was actually going to do this. 

"What?" Sherlock looked even paler. 

"You know very well what I mean," John pulled on the gloves. 

"No." Sherlock gave him a look almost akin to fear. "I'm not letting you. You have been drinking."

"You are right, and be glad that I have been drinking. Otherwise I would recognise this as the horribly bad idea that it is. Now show me..."

"No!" Sherlock pulled away.

"You know that I'm only trying to help you, right?" John sighed, and tried to put on a professional face. "If there is taring, you could have an infection, and that would only make it hurt more. You have a fever, something is wrong. You shouldn't get fevers from having sex. You know this, Sherlock! I have seen you do plenty of experiments on flesh and bacteria..." 

John took a breath, feeling anger and bile rise in his throat.

"Is this the experiment? The experiment you needed the pants for? To get some guy to..."

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. John clenched his gloved hands.

"So is this the experiment going wrong, or is it going right?" John had great trouble keeping his voice calm. "Did you intend it to be this way?"

"I don't want you to see..." Sherlock starred at the roof, avoiding John's eyes.

John recognised the tone in his voice. It was shame, and fear. 

"Sherlock... I would never hurt you."

After a minute of undecisive breathing, Sherlock slowly unbuttoned his trousers and rolled to his stomach. John took a deep breath as his friend pulled up his knees to raise his backside. 

John was not supposed to find the sight a turn on, but he did. His hands were steady, but his heart was shaking, as he pulled down the trousers and pants to reveal smooth skin. It was the black and grey designer pants. 

Sherlock's breath hitched as John pulled them down. 

There was a red buttplug in Sherlock's arse. John stared at it. Then he took another breath. 

"Sherlock... What...?"

"Take it out," moaned Sherlock. 

This was the worst idea in the history of worst ideas, and John wished he had had something stronger than just three bottles of beer to drink. 

Gently he took hold had the end of the plug. Sherlock tensed up. He took up the antiseptic gel from his bag to busy his hands, and smeared it to the sides of the plug.

"Relax," John wished he could say the same to himself. "Just relax."

John pulled, Sherlock grunted. The plug coming out was about the size of a tennis ball. He put it aside on the bed. 

Another breath to calm himself down, and he gently parted Sherlock's arse cheeks. The hole was, loosened, but also unnaturally swollen and irritated. There was, thankfully, no tarring.

Something, that John very well knew wasn't just _something_ , stirred in his pants. His cock was filling up with blood just as fast as his mind was filling up with anger.

John let go of his grip of Sherlock's buttocks before he bruised them. Sherlock was breathing hard. 

"I'm going to kill him," John grunted between clenched teeth, sending mental waves of gathered hatred to whom ever the pervert was who had done this to his friend.

Slowly he parted Sherlock's cheeks again, and applied the gel in so much of a professional manner as he could muster. Sherlock groaned, and John had to stop. 

He moved back, and settled down on the edge of the bed to catch his own breath.

Sherlock rolled to the side, and turned his back to the wall. John clenched his fists over his knees. 

"There's no one else," said a low voice from the curled up bundle beside him. 

"What?" John turned to see Sherlock looking up at him. 

"There was never a date," Sherlock bit his lower lip. "I did this to myself..."

"You... What?"

"The woman at the shop told me how, and she has messaged me when my new orders came in. I had some questions, and we texted. Rather pleasant for an adult-shop keeper, fifty-nine, lesbian, owns three cats, and knits her own penis-mittens."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"It went a bit out of hand, I admit that," Sherlock pushed his lips together a little. "I might have misjudged the speed of the proceedings, and the amount of preparation needed... It is a sensitive area after all, prone to infections if damaged."

John was just gaping, not believing his ears. He wasn't even thinking about that Sherlock still had both his trousers and pants down around his knees. Not much anyway. 

"But it was really only the first trial when it was bad, when I couldn't climb the stairs," Sherlock suddenly sounded a little more enthusiastic. "Both the second and third trial has shown great improvement... Of course this fever was a obvious drawback, but... Perhaps I should wait longer in between the sessions."

"Why?" John interrupts what has the possibility to become a scientific report.

"Because I need reference points, of course. The gathering of baseline data is crucial."

Sherlock gave him a condescending look, but didn't manage to hold it for long before he slumped back to the bed. 

"Why the hell would you....?" John stopped as he was reminded of Sherlock's lower body nudity. "Can we pull your pants back up? Please?"

"Why? Is my penis distracting you?"

"Of course it is!" John groaned. 

It was. Sherlock's penis was half-hard. Just as John's was. 

"This is distracting me too," said John taking the buttplug of the bed and throwing it into the dustbin by the bedside. 

"Actually," Sherlock rolled to his side with a bad wince, which wasn't better since he was now facing John even more. "I was building up my tolerance..."

"For what?!" John was so upset that he got to his feet and almost paced the room.

"For you," whispered Sherlock with a low voice.

John stood still, just staring at his mad friend. Sherlock swallowed. With another grimace he sat up against the headboard, and pulled the bedcovers over his lap. 

John had to sit down again. The strain on his trousers was painful. 

"I..." Sherlock Holmes hesitated, actually hesitated. "When I was away... I... I discovered that I missed you. That... that I was in love with you."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing, he rubbed his face. 

"When I returned," Sherlock continued. "I noticed my feelings were reciprocated."

"Sherlock..." John reached out and took the detective's hand, it was slightly bigger than his own. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

Sherlock made a huffing sound that meant that John was an idiot, and that John could bloody well find out for himself if John only put some of his feeble mind to it, but since John was an idiot, Sherlock was going to tell John and spare John's poor brain the trouble. 

"Because you are constantly claiming to be heterosexual, I am basically asexual since I never taken interest in sex, and neither of us have any experience in male-to-male-intercourse. At least one of us should have done some kind of proper research before the inevitable happens."

John was speechless. He still held on to Sherlock's hand, though. Sherlock's eyes darted over John's face, probably analysing every little micro-expression. 

"Most people just look up some gay porn on the internet," John said finally. 

"I'm not most people."

"No," John laughed. "You most certainly are not."

"Though I did that too."

John sighed and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"What am I going to do with you?"

He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's cheek.

"What _are_ you going to do with me? Sherlock tried a smile.

"I'm going to lay down beside you," said John settling next to Sherlock on the bed. "Hug you, and I'm going to let you get better." He placed his arms around the other man. "Then we are going to do your experiments all over again, together. Okay?"

"That's acceptable," Sherlock snuggled closer to John. "You want to share the covers?"

"Sure," John smiled. "We are going to talk more about this in the morning."

They settled together. John noticed that Sherlock had pushed off his trousers and pants from his ankles. The thought of the other man naked below the waist made him giggle. 

"What?" asked Sherlock, settling on John's shoulder. 

"I can't believe you."

"Is that new?"

"No," John laughed, but then gave him a serious look. "How would you ever think I would accept this?"

"You were not to know."

"You are a idiot. I'm a doctor."

"Stating the obvious."

"You're mad," John shook Sherlock a little. "Is that obvious enough for you? Now rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

It took two minutes before Sherlock's breath was calm and rhythmic against his chest. John sighed, surprised over his own tender feelings.

He felt calm and a bit happy. John noticed he was still wearing the latex gloves, he gently pealed them off and dropped them on the floor. After that he settled against Sherlock and soon fell asleep. 

:::::

John was awoken by the sheer closeness to an other body. He flickered open his eyes to see that he was really watching Sherlock's smooth collar bone. 

"Are you ready?" asked a familiar voice. 

"For what?" John stroked his chin against Sherlock's .

"Mycroft is coming over," Sherlock smoothed his hand over John's back.

"Why?"

"To talk about us."

"Nothin' has happened yet," grumbled John, half between anger and sleep. 

"But it's going to," whispered Sherlock close to his ear.

John blushed. He shifted. 

"Why were you doing all those things?"

"Because I like it when I'm close to you."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Scared..."

John smiled. 

"From now on, you tell me everything. I was really worried about you."

They looked in each other's eyes for a moment. John felt a hand sneaking to rest on his hip. He giggled. Sherlock leaned forward and their lips met in a soft kiss. 

John blushed as he put his own hand on Sherlock's hip and found only bare skin. He caressed it. Sherlock shuddered. 

"Can I...?"

John nodded even though he had no idea what he was agreeing to, it was all good. He felt Sherlock's hand move from his hip to the front of his trousers, yes, this was definitely good. 

His own hand kept stroking Sherlock's bare side. John could feel himself getting hard. Sherlock had opened his trousers and was stroking him through his pants. 

"Sherlock..." whispered John. 

"I see I made a good estimation on the size of my purchases."

"How many... did you buy?" 

"Five," Sherlock kissed him again, and moved his hand underneath John's waistband. 

John gasped when skin finally met skin. 

"Can we...?" he finished the question by momentarily letting go of Sherlock and freeing himself from his restrictive pants by pushing them down his thighs. 

"Definitely," said Sherlock.

He slowly began stroking John's length. John moaned, tugging on Sherlock's prominent hipbone and rubbing himself against those deliciously dextral fingers. 

"Did..." he breathed. "Did you... research this too?"

"Self-experimentation," Sherlock captured John's lips in a soft, slightly wet, kiss. 

"We are definitely... going to revise this this experiment later."

"I love it when you talk science," smirked Sherlock, and pressed his own erection against John's, holding the both in one hand. "This.... Oh! I... John!"

John had entwined his other hand's fingers with Sherlock's, encircling their cocks. Pre-ejaculate and sweat made the movement easier. John knew the antiseptic cream from last night wasn't far away, but he was damned if he was letting of this to go look for it. 

Sherlock grunted loudly, spilling warm semen in between them, on their hands and bellies. John grunted his partner's name and followed with his own orgasm, reverently caressing whatever part of Sherlock he could reach with his lips, which was mostly nose, cheekbones and eyebrows.

They lay panting for a moment, kissing lazily. They were starting to stick together but neither were feeling any need to move. 

At last John gathered his wits about him. 

"When did you say Mycroft was coming?"

"I didn't say any specific time, but if you are wondering, he was here about five minutes ago and left again, quite quickly might add."

"Oh," John should have felt embarrassed but didn't, not one bit. "Your fever is gone. How... Hrm... How does your... backside feel?"

Sherlock shifted a little, seemingly taking note of his sensations. 

"It feels very nice," he smiled mischievously. "Want to check, doctor?"

John suddenly felt very hot. 

"Why don't we take a shower, and change the sheets? We need to talk."

Sherlock looked like he was about to pout. John kissed the frown between his eyes.

"And then you can show me all the things you bought from the penis-cosy-knitting lady."

"Yes!" Sherlock lit up with the idea. "Her name is Joan by the way, Mrs Hudson introduced us..."

"I don't want to hear it!"

John shook his head, tucked himself back to his pants, and, reluctantly, got off the bed. His trousers fell to the floor so he stepped out of them. He turned back to look down on Sherlock's half-exposed body. 

"I want my own ding, though."

"Your own what?"

"You are the genius," John winked. "You figure it out."

\------  
The End


End file.
